


The Mark of a Good Man

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A lil bit of edging, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Cross-Generational Relationship, Dom/sub overtones, HP Kinkfest 2019, Intercrural Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Partially unredeemed Draco, Scent Kink, a hint of praise kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 05:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17975498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: After the life Draco Malfoy has lived, there aren’t many things capable of rendering him completely speechless, and he’s pleased to discover that even Albus Potter — writhing naked under the sheet of Draco’s bed and gasping face-down into Draco’s pillow — isn’t an exception to the rule.Draco's never claimed to be a good man.





	The Mark of a Good Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [birdsofshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/gifts).



> **Written for prompt #S14**  
>  **Kink:** Scent  
>  **One to three pairings (or 'any'):** Draco/Albus Severus  
>  **Optional Prompt/Extras:** Draco just smells so damn good. What is a poor horny boy to do other than find any opportunity he can to enjoy Draco's scent?  
>  **Submitted by:** birdsofshore
> 
>  
> 
> Birds: So, um, remember that time I lied and said someone else had gotten to this prompt first? *sheepish smile* This is probably so far from what you were looking for, but Draco and Albus were being stupidly stubborn, so I hope you can overlook the stuff that wasn't part of your awesome prompt. ;D 
> 
> Sending out gigantic hugs and thanks to my betas, [lq_traintracks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks/works?fandom_id=136512) and [magpie_fngrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/pseuds/magpie_fngrl/works?fandom_id=136512), whose notes smoothed out all the (unintentional) rough edges, and staved off many a panic-attack. You guys are the best. <3
> 
> Many thanks as well to the mods of the HP Kinkfest, whose hard work has made this fest possible. 
> 
> All characters belong to JKR and associated publishers. 
> 
> **Additional note:** As mentioned in the tags, this fic depicts a cross-generational sexual relationship. While it's perfectly legal (Albus is 17, Draco is 43), please don't read if that's not your thing. Thank you! :)

After the life Draco Malfoy has lived, there aren’t many things capable of rendering him completely speechless. The first sip of a perfectly-balanced wine or a surprisingly deft compliment might perhaps do it, but those are never more than temporary lulls. He’s always prided himself on a quick recovery, and he’s pleased to discover that even Albus Potter — writhing naked under the sheet of Draco’s bed and gasping face-down into Draco’s pillow — isn’t an exception to the rule. 

Though unexpected, the sight does little more than strike Draco momentarily mute. He inhales through his nose and considers. 

A decent man would likely walk away. Draco has few presumptions of decency; apart from what’s necessary to propel oneself and one’s family through polite society, he’s always been of the opinion that the concept itself is utter tripe. But he loves his son and does what he can to be a good father, and the sudden tightness to the groin of his trousers presents him with a bit of a conundrum. 

Well.

It should, he supposes. 

Draco sets down his bag and slips off his shoes in the doorway. One eye on Albus’s squirming form, he light-steps his way across the plush carpeting of his bedroom to the bar and pours himself a drink. Then he sits in a chair near the fireplace to watch. He may as well let the boy finish, after all. 

It doesn’t take long. Albus’s gasps grow deeper, louder, until they’re outright moans, muffled and broken, and each edged with the sharp note of rising pleasure. As Draco sips his whisky, Albus’s movements slip the sheets lower down his back to reveal more of him: the length of his spine, the upper-swell of his buttocks. The shadow of his crease. He humps at the mattress frantically, in that way of boys Draco remembers from being seventeen, when eagerness overwhelms any regard for finesse. Fortunately, the latter can be taught, given the right instruction.

Cries reaching a crescendo, Albus’s shoulders stiffen. The round, clenching muscles of his arse coax the sheet down further, baring him from the thigh up as he rides out his climax with fast jerks of his hips. Draco licks away a drop of whisky clinging to his upper lip with no small sense of appreciation for the view; thanks to the growth spurts Albus has gone through in the last year, he’s now within a couple of inches of Draco’s height. His body is coltish, pretty, his skin creamy and flawless over slender muscles all the way up to the nape of his neck, where he blushes a deep pink below the unkempt cloud of his dark hair. He looks… unused. Like a toy, still shiny from the box. 

Albus finally goes lax. He rests in place for several moments, breathing into Draco’s pillow, then rolls to his side with a sigh and a rather dreamy look upon his face. Though Albus’s eyes are still closed, Draco toasts him and takes a last sip of his drink. He sets down his tumbler on the side table and clears his throat. 

“Hello, Albus. I didn’t anticipate seeing you today.” 

“Wh—!” Albus startles hard, turning and scrambling into an upright position. He pulls frantically at the fallen sheet. 

Draco gives him a slight smile and lifts one eyebrow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

* * *

The sweat has gone cold on Albus’s neck. Down the hall, Albus can hear a peeping little meow. The clock continues to tick on the mantelpiece behind Mr Malfoy, though it seems all time has come to a screeching halt. Albus can’t bring himself to look at him; part of him wishes he never had.

Even at fifteen, he’d known it was wrong.

He’d noticed Mr Malfoy before, of course. Thought about him a time or two, bed curtains shut tight around him, a Silencing spell in place to cover the sounds he couldn’t forestall by biting his lip as he worked his hand over himself. Only those thoughts happened by accident, and he didn’t feel guilty for them; they felt… expected, when your best mate’s dad looked the way Mr Malfoy did: sharply and elegantly featured, cool and graceful. An older version of Scorpius — who, to Albus’s eye, was turning out fit enough, though he’d never move or look at you with the same reined-in sort of intensity. Scorpius reined nothing in — everything he felt was on display, all the time; it was one of the things Albus liked best about him. Mr Malfoy was so composed he… he _seethed_ control. Albus liked that even better. So it made perfect sense that he’d drift into Albus’s mind on occasion. 

But he _was_ Scorpius’s dad, and it was a good-faith effort on Albus’s part to never imagine him on purpose. Until he broke his ankle at Malfoy Manor.

It happened so fast, only high points of the memory stood out in his mind: weaving through the woods at high speeds on his broom as he searched for Scorpius, a bird darting into his path, the crash into a branch that seemed to come out of nowhere. The fall left him cradling his ankle and trying not to scream, sweating it out for seconds that felt infinite, sure he was going to crack his teeth. And then in the next moment, he was looking into the startled eyes of Mr Malfoy, who was kneeling at his side, and who — as far as Albus had been aware — had been a good distance away, in the Manor, when Albus fell.

Mr Malfoy’s pale hair was dishevelled, windblown, and a small frown sat between his eyebrows. He searched Albus’s face and gave the back of his neck a squeeze in a warm grip, then slid one arm around Albus’s shoulders and the other under his knees. 

“Hold on to me,” he said, standing with a soft grunt. He was surprisingly strong for someone so slender, and out of nowhere, Albus remembered that he used to play Quidditch. For all Albus knew, he still did.

Albus held on. 

Apparition was just as unpleasant as everyone always said, but when the sickening feeling subsided, Albus realised Mr Malfoy had taken him to the sitting room in the West wing. Mr Malfoy eased Albus down next to him on the sofa and took his foot carefully in his lap, his wand Vanishing Albus’s shoe and sock, and tearing a clean stripe up the leg of his jeans. _Tsk_ ing under his breath, he Summoned a pain potion and helped Albus tip the vial back when Albus’s hands shook too hard to hold it without spilling it, then cast a mild numbing spell over Albus’s leg from the knee down with a single, elegant swish of his wand. He ran his fingertips lightly over the strange angle of Albus’s ankle, brow furrowed, head low and close to Albus’s face, and he glanced up when Albus flinched. 

“Still hurts?” 

“N-No,” Albus got out, face heating up. He wasn’t exactly in pain, that was true enough. 

It was just— he’d never been _close_ to Mr Malfoy like that before, the scent of Mr Malfoy’s sweat or cologne or shampoo, or, or _breath_ maybe, right in his face, something so achingly provocative Albus’s attention had swerved from his ankle to his crotch, getting hard before the pain had even begun to fade. He breathed in deeply, trying to identify the scent, but apart from the light tang of sweat and a hint of expensive cologne, could only catalogue it with impressions. Mr Malfoy smelled… Merlin, he smelled _hot_ , smoky, like burnt firecrackers, but somehow cool as well, in a way that made Albus think of what it was like to inhale outside Hogwarts after the first frost came; he smelled briny and clean as the air did in Brighton when Albus’s family went there on summer holiday. But there was something darker and _lush_ about the scent, too, that reminded Albus of the time he’d stolen a Galleon from his mum to buy biscuits and had got away with it. Something that reminded him of how the they'd tasted, sweeter than any he’d ever had before — or since — and the shame he felt eating them. 

His dick was so hard that when Mr Malfoy jostled his leg, a moan tore out of Albus’s throat. He felt like he was about to come from _nothing._

“It doesn’t?” Mr Malfoy cast another numbing charm anyway, mouth settling into a straight line. He looked more like himself without the frown, and Albus was surprised to realise that he knew Mr Malfoy wasn’t a frowning sort of man. He wasn’t really the smiling sort, either, but there was something so compelling about the seriousness with which he did most things that Albus let his gaze wander over the thoughtfully stern expression that suited Mr Malfoy so well. He looked, for the first time, really let himself _look_ , panting with the force it took not to press his nose to the side of Mr Malfoy’s neck and inhale until he came in his jeans. 

“Albus?”

“I’m— fine,” Albus said. Squeaked, maybe. He balled up his hands over his boner, and held his breath. “It, uh, no. It doesn’t hurt.”

Mr Malfoy studied him for a long moment. He blinked twice, lips parting a touch. And then he cleared his throat, slid Albus’s foot from his lap, and rose. He stared out the massive, bevelled windows overlooking the blushing roses in the gardens for a moment, before facing Albus again. His mouth twitched.

“Well. I’d better Floo your parents so they can take you to Mungo’s. I’d Heal it myself,” Mr Malfoy said, so collected Albus wondered if it was possible he really hadn’t noticed, “but I’m hesitant to do so when I can’t visualise the break. Besides, your father will undoubtedly want to make certain I didn’t maim you permanently,” Mr Malfoy continued, dry and vaguely exasperated. He grimaced and took a breath. “I apologise for that, Albus, it was—”

Albus swallowed and found his voice. “It’s okay. I heard him say the same thing about you when Scorpius got sick on my birthday cake last year,” he said, and Mr Malfoy snorted. 

“Regardless, you should really have it checked by a professional Healer,” he said, looking down at Albus from the advantage of his height. Everything about him was dignified, posh — even his pose, one arm folded behind his back, the other holding his wand loosely at his side. Everything but the small, wry twist to his lips. He wore the dirt that stained the knees of his otherwise immaculate grey trousers as though it had cost thousands of Galleons, and Albus stared at his mouth, unable to get the _smell_ of him out of his head. He wanted to rub his nose all over him, wanted to smell him and smell him, to touch and taste him. But Mr Malfoy’s mouth drew down once more as Albus watched, and he thought _He did see_ , and dropped his eyes.

“Yeah,” Albus said. “Thank you.” 

Mr Malfoy nodded and departed, passing Scorpius as he burst in, covered in mud and crowing about having been able to feel the property’s Injury wards for the first time. He was talking so fast and animatedly that Albus was finally able to drag his mind from the ache hidden under his fists — too much like the one that seemed so pressing only minutes ago, as he wanked against Mr Malfoy’s bed, delirious from that same addictive scent. 

There’s a wet patch under his bum. 

Shitting hell. 

Mr Malfoy seems content to wait for Albus to speak but when Albus opens his mouth, nothing comes out. He hitches the sheet a little higher against his chest, and Mr Malfoy tilts his head, a slip of white-blond hair coming to rest just above his slanted brow. He’s got a look of mild curiosity on his face, like Scorpius forgot to tell him he’d invited Albus to dinner. Albus doesn’t think the muscles in his body can tighten further — and then Mr Malfoy lifts his hand, and Albus can’t stop himself from shrinking back against the ornate mahogany headboard. But Mr Malfoy merely snaps his fingers and settles deeper into his chair, draping one ankle over his opposite knee. 

Blankly, Albus notes the pattern of his socks (argyle in grey, with navy and green accents), and wondering where Mr Malfoy’s shoes have got off to distracts him enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Mr Malfoy says: “Ah, I remember. Scorpius mentioned you’d be checking in on the cat while he’s at his mother’s and I was away. Yes?”

Albus tries to nod. Tries to shake his head. It turns into a strange, wobbly movement that goes on too long. 

“You’ll have to forgive my confusion,” Mr Malfoy says. “You see, I don’t allow the cat in here, so—”

“Tired,” Albus blurts. “I’ve been sick, and I got dizzy, I had a potion before, and, and needed to sleep, and…”

“What an energetic sleeper you are.”

Albus’s heart skips. When it resumes, each beat is so loud he thinks Mr Malfoy must be able to hear them. 

Mr Malfoy dips his fingers into the amber liquid puddled at the bottom of a nearly empty glass sat next to his chair. He runs a lazy fingertip around the rim, and a high, clear note sounds. Eyes on the glass, Mr Malfoy smirks.

Once, when Albus was little, he overheard his dad talking to his mum about it: _Malfoy gave me that smirk when the Wizengamot approved his line of research, you know the one I mean? **That** smirk_, his dad had said, frustrated. Like it was an entity on its own, a thing his dad wanted to duel with. Albus never understood why; he’d thought it must be impossible for any Unspeakable to not to look like they knew everyone’s secrets. He’d thought that was just how Mr Malfoy’s face _was._

Seeing it now, Albus understands better. 

It’s a cool, sly sort of expression, one eyebrow arched, a deep groove next to his pursed lips. There’s a challenge about it, a taunt, that would tweak every protective, defensive chord Albus’s dad has — and he’s got a lot of them.

But Albus isn’t his father. He doesn’t want to fight; he wants to flee. He wants… He wants…

He wants Mr Malfoy to direct that smirk his way. 

As if reading Albus’s mind, Mr Malfoy’s gaze lifts to meet his. He flicks his fingers, then brings the index up to swipe with his tongue. He doesn’t say anything, and an unwilling shudder tears through Albus’s body. 

“I didn’t… I tried not to,” he whispers. 

Impossibly, Mr Malfoy’s eyebrow seems to climb even higher. He huffs a low laugh. “”Believe me,” he says, rising from his chair. “I can appreciate the sentiment.” He slips off his jacket and drapes it over one forearm. His belt is next; he unfastens it but leaves it on as he removes his sheened grey waistcoat, then loosens his tie and pulls it free from his collar. “So. We seem to have found ourselves in a situation neither of us could have predicted. Unless you knew I’d be home early?” 

Albus’s pulse is thumping double-time. “What are you…?” he starts. Mr Malfoy glances at him wordlessly and finishes unclasping his cufflinks. Albus swallows. “No, I thought you’d be gone another week.” 

“Mm. Yes, that was the plan.” Mr Malfoy pulls his wand and sends his clothing flying toward the wardrobe near the bed. Just the scent clinging to it as it passes threatens to rob Albus of coherence. His muscles slacken; his dick twitches. The wardrobe doors snap open and shut. Mr Malfoy clears his throat pointedly and Albus drags his eyes back to find him standing beside the fireplace, leaning with one arm propped on the mantelpiece. “Now, I presume we’ll have to come up with a new one.”

* * *

Poor thing. The bewilderment on Albus’s face borders on terror. For a moment, Draco’s tempted to tell him to go, to reassure him that nothing more will be said on the subject. But there’s something fiercely hungry about Albus too, woven into his confusion and fear, and Draco hasn’t clawed his way back into his position without learning to take advantage of the opportunities in his path.

It’s not that he has no moral code — of course he does. His simply tends toward the darker shades of grey on the scale; not everyone can afford to see things in black and white. 

“Perhaps not,” Draco says. He bites back a laugh at the restless little shift Albus gives; he suspects it wouldn’t be the most pleasant sound, and while Albus is here, Draco would much prefer to keep him teetering in place rather than tip him over the edge, into a panicked exit. “Well, let’s see. It’s not as if you’ve done something criminal here. Not that filing a report over this would result in action being taken, considering…”

 _Who you are._ Draco leaves it unsaid, but Albus gets there on his own. Fortunately, it motivates him into speech. 

“I’m— I’m _so_ sorry. I’ll never— I don’t know why I— I’ve never—” Throat working, Albus falls silent again, his lie lingering in the air between them. Albus hangs his head. “I’m not like this.”

And that’s a lie, too. 

“Do you know,” Draco says idly, “that when I was twenty-two, an Auror got a warrant to search the general rooms of the Manor for contraband items? He planted something in my bedroom — don’t worry, it wasn’t your father; I have no idea whether he knew about the raid at all — after which time, he sought and was awarded a second warrant for the family wing, where he ‘found’ the item.” Albus stares at him uncomprehendingly. Draco smiles into the short pause, then continues, “The only thing that protected me from immediately being sent to Azkaban was the fact that I’d spelled wards over my private rooms — which allowed me to prove that he’d been in them without an invitation, and when. It was a simple precautionary measure that turned out to be wise. I’ve kept them in place, since.”

Albus jerks his head up, colour leaching from his face. Draco watches him, practically able to see the gears moving as Albus mentally calculates how many times he’s broken the wards. 

“I wasn’t— I never took anything, or, or…”

“I never accused you of taking anything,” Draco says. Albus takes a breath and seems to decide to brazen it out — though his microexpressions give him away: his chin juts and crinkles at the same time; his eyes are open, but his gaze avoids Draco’s face. Draco adds, “Not that I necessarily would have minded,” and has the pleasure of seeing the exact moment Albus notices the swell of Draco’s cock, pushing against the front of his trousers. Albus’s eyes go wide. The rise and fall of his chest pauses, speeds up. His nostrils flare.

Draco pushes off the mantelpiece to approach the foot of his bed. Albus looks delectable in the expanse of it, like an hors d'oeuvre prepared with the sole intention of whetting Draco’s appetite for more, and presented with an eye toward aesthetic, on fine white china.

“But the wards don’t tell me what you’ve done in here,” Draco says. He touches the edge of the mattress. “Has it been this?”

“No,” Albus breathes, and Draco studies him silently. The lines of his face are caught in that stage between youth and adulthood, the roundness of childhood having melted away to reveal the strong, rather beautiful bone structure of his cheekbones, his jawline, his brow — all of it strikingly familiar. All of it horribly arousing, when paired with that look of helpless desire, those vibrant green eyes wide and focused on the pull of fabric stretching over Draco’s erection. “I only— looked, before.”

“So have I,” Draco murmurs. “It’s hard not to be impressed with the two of us, both on our best behaviour. Until today.”

A small sound coming from the back of his throat, Albus’s gaze finally lifts to Draco’s. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Mr Malfoy?”

Draco smirks. “I think it’s safe to dispense with the formalities, Albus.”

“I—” Albus twines the sheet around nervous fingers. “I don’t know how, sir.” The stark want and shame in his eyes could so very easily break someone’s heart, if they were given to the same ability for tender feelings. Draco isn’t. But neither can he pretend to be unaffected.

“Well, I don’t mind the ‘sir’,” Draco says, “though you should feel free to use my given name under these circumstances. Beyond that, I can show you, if you like.”

Albus opens his mouth; he starts to nod. Draco holds up a hand to pause him. 

“We’ve discussed this before, you and I,” he says evenly. Albus goes blank with disbelief, but then his eyes widen further. He may not be quite the starry-eyed boy he was only a couple of years prior, but he’s still young, still processing it, and Draco reaches for restraint. He’s never been in the habit of sharing his bed with someone who was unsure whether they wanted to be there, but the ache in his prick is increasing and his patience is on the wane, so he rounds the bed to Albus’s side. Takes his chin in hand. Albus’s neck is pliant enough when Draco guides his face up, but his eyes flicker with uncertainty. “Do you remember?”

* * *

Does he _remember?_

Albus remembers everything. Every moment between them: awkward family run-ins on Diagon Alley, breakfasts shared where Mr Malfoy barely looked up from his newspaper as Scorpius chattered beside Albus, Mr Malfoy’s rare visits to Albus’s house to drop off something Scorpius forgot, and _every single time_ he’s passed Mr Malfoy in the last two years, in one of the winding hallways of the Manor, and got a whiff of that scent that made his knees want to buckle. There’ve been countless exchanges, conversations, asides, and Albus remembers all of them, but without thinking, he knows almost instantly the ones Mr Malfoy means. 

There are two. Albus bites his lip, his chin held fast in Mr Malfoy’s hand. 

The first took place last summer. The sticky, oppressive heat of the city had reached all the way to Wiltshire, and whenever Scorpius invited Albus over to hang out, it was practically a given that they’d spend most of their time swimming in the lake. It was routine. 

What wasn’t part of the routine was running into Mr Malfoy on the stairs leading to the family entrance on their way back, or seeing him in nothing but black swimming briefs that only came down to the tops of his thighs. He had a towel slung around his neck and held a book in one hand, had a pair of sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He’d looked like a fashion model, or a Greek statue, maybe, the leanly defined muscles of his long body and so much pale skin exposed. He most definitely didn’t look like an adult the same age as Albus’s dad — who had to stay fit for his job, but looked like a _dad_ , all the same — and Albus was only saved from the humiliation of being caught staring by the elbow Scorpius pressed to his ribs in a silent, _Check it out_.

“What?” Mr Malfoy asked, sliding the glasses to prop on his head when Scorpius scoffed with exaggerated surprise. “I’m not allowed to take a quick dip in my own lake? Really, I should be charging the two of you dues; you get to make use of it every summer.” He shifted his gaze to Albus and winked, then knocked the glasses back down over his eyes and smiled in a way that made Albus glad his own towel was wrapped around his waist.

“I have a whole vault you won’t let me access until I’m twenty-one,” Scorpius said, grinning. “Take your fees from that, Dad.”

“I’ll remember you said that in five years’ time,” Mr Malfoy said wryly. 

“Go ahead.” Scorpius rolled his eyes. “Okay, we’re going to shower. Oh, you remember we’re going to the Burrow for dinner tonight, right?” he asked.

“How could I forget,” Mr Malfoy drawled, mouth quirking. “Have fun.” 

“Always do,” Scorpius said, resuming his climb toward the doors, two stairs at a time. “I’ll be fast, Albus.”

“I’ll be faster than you,” Albus said. 

“Only because there’s a guest shower that’s closer,” Scorpius called over his shoulder before disappearing from their sight. Albus felt his face warm with a blush; up close, Mr Malfoy’s cologne tempted him to wander closer. He smelled coconut-y, like he’d recently applied a common Sun-protective charm. But that other scent was there too, the way it had been since Albus had noticed it a year prior, and subtly, mysteriously different, the way it always was; this time, Mr Malfoy smelled… playful, the way a tease or an inside joke might. Yet there was something vaguely, mockingly expectant about it as well, something that evoked the image of a barn cat hunched beside a mouse hole. It was… God, it was good. Albus blew out a breath and took a step away. 

“You’ll be faster because Scorpius takes as long as I do,” Mr Malfoy said, which evoked a whole new set of problematic images. One side of Mr Malfoy’s lips lifted.

“Y-yeah.” Albus tried not to imagine Mr Malfoy in the shower, but it was impossible with Mr Malfoy right in front of him, more naked than Albus had ever thought he’d get to see. He wasn’t indecent or anything, but Albus had a clear view of his bare chest, of the v of his hip bones, of the feathering of blond hair under Mr Malfoy’s belly button, snaking its way into swimming briefs that were tight enough to outline the length of his dick.

“Albus?” 

Albus’s blush went hot. “Scars,” he blurted, gesturing to the silvery lines cut across Mr Malfoy’s torso. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I just— I was wondering—”

Mr Malfoy paused. He glanced down at his chest, then back to Albus. With a look of amusement, he said, “I got them during the war.”

“Sorry,” Albus said again, because _fuck._ “Right, yeah.” 

“It’s no matter,” Mr Malfoy said with a dismissive wave of his book. “They’re a reminder that sometimes a decision made in the heat of the moment can have lasting consequences.” He tipped his sunglasses back up and folded his arms, leaning against the marble bannister. He scanned Albus’s face, rooting him in place. “No matter how good you’re sure something will feel.”

Albus was sure his towel covered everything, but he felt like… He felt like Mr Malfoy could see through it, could tell how hard Albus was, knew just how much Albus wanted to taste the bead of sweat that had slithered down Mr Malfoy’s jaw to rest, trembling, in the hollow of his throat. 

“Would it have?” Albus asked. Mr Malfoy cocked his head in question. Albus sucked in his cheek, then pushed the words out. “Felt good?”

Mr Malfoy’s mouth had curled in a slow smile, his eyes gleaming. “Undoubtedly. And that’s a lesson as well: sometimes risks with consequences are worth taking — as long as you’re prepared for them.” 

“I, um, try to be,” Albus said, with a laugh that sounded embarrassingly unhinged. They didn’t seem to be talking about battle techniques, but… “I don’t plan to be getting into a wand fight any time soon, though.”

“Of course not. You’re a good boy, Albus,” Mr Malfoy said, straightening smoothly. Albus’s dick jerked. Eyes still on Albus’s face, Mr Malfoy’s smile widened, and he strode down the last few stairs with a quiet “Have a nice night.”

The second conversation took place on New Year’s Eve. Only there to keep Scorpius company after his obligatory appearance at his father’s party — and only there because Scorpius had promised Albus didn’t have to attend — Albus didn’t expect to run into Mr Malfoy in the wide corridor that led to the family bedrooms. But there he’d been, with twenty minutes on the clock until midnight, standing before a giant mirror on the wall and casting at what looked like a wine stain spreading over the chest of the royal blue, formal robes he was wearing. He was cursing under his breath. Tentatively, Albus had cleared his throat.

“Oh. Hello, Albus.” Mr Malfoy sounded aggravated, but Albus didn’t think it was at him. 

“Is everything okay?” 

“Yes, thank you.” Mr Malfoy blew out a breath. “I have others.” He flicked his wand and waited; a few seconds passed, and a set of robes almost exactly like the ones he was wearing but in black came flying into his waiting hand. 

“Will the stain come out?”

“It certainly doesn’t seem to want to,” Mr Malfoy said distractedly, stroking the tip of his wand down the front of his robes, the long row of tiny buttons slipping open to reveal the white shirt and dark trousers he was wearing under them. “I’ll know better than to invite the mistress of one of my department’s benefactors next year. Fucking cow,” he muttered, glancing at Albus when he drew a surprised breath. “Pardon me.”

“No, I— I just never heard you talk that way before,” Albus said. He wanted to hear it again; something about Mr Malfoy’s precise accent made the curse word sound even dirtier, even more illicit. He took a few steps closer, until he was within scenting distance of the crisp notes of Mr Malfoy’s aftershave: he smelled haughty, regal, frustrated. Trying not to seem obvious, Albus breathed him in. Seeing Mr Malfoy like this, having him near, just the two of them in the dim hallway, made Albus feel bold. “I don’t mind it, though,” Albus dared to say. “I mean, who hasn’t said…” Mr Malfoy’s eyes met his and Albus’s throat went dry.

“Fuck?” Mr Malfoy said, voice going lower and a little rough. “Fucking?”

Albus nodded, mouth dry. 

“Yes, I suppose we all have to let off steam once in a while,” Mr Malfoy murmured. The lamps lining the hallway had been turned down low, but Albus imagined he could see a glint to Mr Malfoy’s silvery gaze, which seemed to run up and down Albus’s body. It settled on his face, and Mr Malfoy licked his lips, one eyebrow popping up with a wicked slant. “Don’t we?”

“Yes,” Albus croaked. 

Mr Malfoy smiled and looked into the mirror again. He tugged on his bowtie until it came undone, then pulled it free of his collar. “What can I do for you, Albus?”

Stilling, Albus had stared at Mr Malfoy’s profile, taking in his high forehead and cheekbones, his long, straight nose, the cut of his jaw down to his narrow chin. Electricity zipped down Albus’s spine, and with some effort, he found his voice. “With— For—?”

“Well, I doubt you were roaming the hallway waiting for me to show up,” Mr Malfoy said, sliding his robes from his shoulders. 

“I, uh.” Albus cast a look behind him toward Mr Malfoy’s door, which was — thankfully — hidden in the shadows. “I was just waiting for Scorpius. Killing time talking to some of the portraits,” he said. “They’re cool.” 

Mr Malfoy’s gaze had strayed over Albus’s shoulder. Albus held his breath, but all Mr Malfoy said was, “You’re a braver man than I was at sixteen. They can be terrifying.”

“Seventeen,” Albus said.

There’d been a long pause. Then Mr Malfoy nodded. “Of course.” 

“And that’s… kind of why they’re interesting,” Albus ventured.

“ _Really._ ” Mr Malfoy rested his robes on a high table decorated by three crystal vases filled with lavender roses, then cleared his throat and frowned at himself in the mirror. His gaze swerved, his reflection pinning Albus with an intent look. 

Albus shoved his hands in his pockets for something to do other than run away or launch himself at Mr Malfoy’s body and inhale until he passed out. “Well, you know. Sometimes. And they can’t hurt me.”

Mr Malfoy had made a thoughtful sound, shrugging on his replacement robes. He paused, watching Albus in the mirror as the buttons fastened themselves. The robes were a slimmer fit than the others and had a higher collar; they made him look sharper, darker. More intimidating. “You’d be surprised what can hurt you here,” he said. “I’d keep that in mind, if I were you.”

“And if I don’t care?” The question just came out, surprising Albus as much as it seemed to surprise Mr Malfoy, whose long silence felt like it was saying an awful lot.

“Then you should,” he said, somehow making it sound like both a secret and a warning. His smile wasn’t very nice, nor was the way his eyes ran over Albus from head to toe, but Albus couldn’t resist taking another halting step towards him, a million words trapped in his throat, and Mr Malfoy said, “You really should, my boy. There are plenty of perfectly safe ways to satisfy one’s curiosities. Others are… dangerous, and not to be toyed with.” He held Albus’s gaze for a long beat before turning. “I have to get back. You’re always welcome to join us.”

“No, thanks,” Albus said faintly. “I’ll wait for… I’m fine right here.”

Albus has thought about that conversation almost every night for nearly eight months. Thought about it and discarded it as something his imagination must have added details to, like the suggestive lilt of Mr Malfoy’s voice, the meaning of the warning he’d issued. He’d almost convinced himself that he’d even imagined the way he’d lifted Mr Malfoy’s abandoned robes and brought them to his face. They’d been better than any of the laundered clothing in Mr Malfoy’s closet, still warm from his body, and smelled so good Albus had almost tripped twice on the way to the loo, where he’d fumbled his jeans open and came gasping, after only three tight pulls. 

Does he remember? The question should have been, _How could you forget?_

“Yes,” he chokes out. Mr Malfoy’s fingers tighten on his chin, and Albus can smell the heat of his hand as much as he can feel it, maybe even more. The pad of Mr Malfoy’s thumb rubs over his bottom lip.

“And?” Mr Malfoy asks, smirking once more. 

Albus meets his eyes, and lets his mouth fall open.

* * *

Salazar. There’s no possible way Albus can know what an erotic picture he makes, or how much Draco wants, in that moment, to take him apart. No way he can know what a lure his instinctive supplication is to a man like Draco. He pushes his thumb into the warmth of Albus’s mouth and everything about Albus stills but for his tongue, which flutters lightly, and his eyelids, which slip closed.

“Are you hard again already, Albus?” Draco asks, just to see whether he’ll admit or deny it. The sweep of Albus’s dark lashes lifts. He looks at Draco for a moment, then closes his lips around Draco’s thumb and gives a stuttering nod. Draco’s prick pulses, damp at the tip; disoriented, he slides his thumb free from the tentative suction around it and takes a breath. 

“Should I not have…?” Albus hesitates, his innocent doubt almost as arousing as his unpracticed attempt at seduction. “Was that not good?” 

Draco rubs his wet thumb against his middle finger to ground himself. He raises an eyebrow in Albus’s direction. “Do you think it was?”

Another hesitation, longer this time. Then Albus says, “Yes. I— I wanted to. I’ve… thought about it. Doing it. That. To your—” Here, his courage seems to fail him, the flush on his cheeks darkening. 

“My thumb?” Draco prompts, then lowers his voice. “My cock?”

Albus nods again, drawing the narrow frame of his shoulders in stiffly, defensively. Staring at the bend of his knees, he mumbles something. 

“What was that?”

“Yeah.” Albus squeezes his eyes shut. “Anything,” he says shakily, “your… anything.”

Draco exhales sharply, the last of his residual amusement fading. “Look at me.” He steps up to the bed, planting one knee on the mattress, and takes a fistful of Albus’s hair, gripping it hard. He angles Albus’s face up. “ _Look._ ”

With an audible gulp, Albus obeys. 

“This is not a love affair.” Draco keeps his voice low but uncompromising. “I would very much like to have you, but that can be said of many others as well. Others who won’t assign more meaning to this than it should have. This is not a love affair.”

Albus blinks, wincing, those damnable bright green eyes swimming with tears. Resentment roars through Draco. He’d felt no small amount of satisfaction when Potter's youngest boy, at all of thirteen, had begun stealing glances at him. Was reluctantly flattered — and amused, oh Merlin, yes — when Albus had realised at fifteen, with a broken ankle in Draco's lap, what those glances had been preparing him to feel. Found himself intrigued when he first discovered who was behind the alerts on his private wards, enough to engage in a few games with the boy, curious to see to how far his fascination went. But until Albus had proclaimed his age on New Year’s Eve so fervently in that low voice — _Old enough_ , he may as well have said — Draco never contemplated bedding him. So he can’t even be certain exactly when he began thinking of it as an inevitability, and if the night hadn’t unfolded the way it has, he would have taken his fucking time. 

He doesn’t usually fuck younger men. He’s never been _averse_ to fucking them, he simply tends to gravitate towards a particular type when he’s on the pull, prefers bedmates his own age, with similar experience or better. His time is valuable; if he’d wanted to waste it giving instruction, he would have applied to teach at Hogwarts like every wizard from his year who’d not been skilled enough to do anything else. A few more years and — oh, yes — he and Albus could have had a very good time together. 

Yet the fragility on Albus’s face gives testament to a depth of feeling that doesn’t belong in Draco’s bed. His silence gives every answer Draco doesn’t want. And while Draco would like to ruin him six ways from Sunday, he makes an effort to do little these days that might come back to haunt him. He’s furious with himself for the miscalculation, with Albus for being yet one more in a line over whom he’ll make them, with the fact that he has any conscience left to spare for something like this. It frustrates him to the point that magic gathers hotly in his palm, a word away from obliterating half the contents of his bedroom. He releases Albus’s hair with a small shove, and glares at him. 

“I see. I am going to take a shower,” he says, icily snapping off each syllable, “and you will not be here when I come out. We won’t speak of this again.” 

But he’s barely straightened off the mattress when Albus surges to his knees and grabs Draco by the collar of his shirt, pulling him back. Draco snarls, jerking away from the tight hold Albus has on him, but Albus simply comes with, knees dragging on the mattress, hands scrabbling for purchase around Draco’s nape. He lands a clumsy, wet kiss on Draco’s half-open mouth, then presses his face into the side of Draco’s neck. “No,” he says in a small, hungry voice, breath humid on Draco’s skin. “No, it’s not— it’s not like that. Please, please don’t, please.”

Draco remains rigid, despite the way his cock responds to Albus’s slender chest pressed to his, despite how Albus has let the sheet go so his own hard cock bounces between them, grazing Draco’s pelvis. Still, he can’t help but ask, “Don’t what?”

Albus runs his face up and down the bend of Draco’s neck, mouthing erratically at the cords standing out, a needy whimper vibrating there. “Don’t— don’t say no. Don’t shower, oh god, you smell so good, Mr— Draco,” he says, surprising Draco enough that he sets his hands on Albus’s hips. “I don’t care, I _don’t_ , I won’t bother you, just, _please_ let me, let me,” he rambles on, words muffled and hot, “please, you taste just like you smell, it’s so good, I like it so much.”

Apparently taking Draco’s touch and silence for acquiescence, Albus shuffles closer, pressing their bodies together from thigh to shoulder in a decidedly inconvenient fashion. He wraps his arms around the breadth of Draco’s shoulders, seeks friction by rocking against him. Draco’s open belt clinks softly, nearly drowned out by the unsteady sound of Albus’s breath. Curiously, Draco tips his head to allow for better access and Albus rumbles out a moan, tracking a path of moist kisses over Draco’s exposed throat. He licks the ball of Draco’s Adam’s apple, then the dip between his collarbones, and finally rests the tip of his nose there, lips pressed to the top of Draco’s chest, hips jerking lightly. Draco squeezes them into stillness to better consider the new dimension Albus has introduced.

Draco’s scent, he said. Merely a combination of shampoos and conditioners, of the aftershaves and colognes he favours. Though all of them are custom-mixed, Draco changes them up frequently, by event or mood. But the way Albus is clinging to him, mumbling frantically against him, inhaling as though unbothered by what seems a very real possibility of hyperventilation, indicates that his fascination isn’t something new. It also changes the implications of his softly-spoken confession, before.

Interesting.

Draco slides his hands around Albus’s hips, ignoring — for now — the gasp of pleasure Albus gives at the additional contact as Draco palms his buttocks, massages them. His arse is just as firm as it looked when he was grinding against the bed, and Draco parts his cheeks to skim his fingers down the cleft. Albus starts, begins moving again, his chin tucked into the open collar of Draco’s shirt, his tongue swirling patterns on Draco’s chest. 

“Albus, stop,” Draco commands gently, fluttering the tip of his middle finger against the tight furl of Albus’s hole before slipping his fingers further down to rub over his perineum. Albus whines, but his movements subside when Draco adds some pressure. Draco continues stroking the spot. “I’m not leaving. Hush now. Be good for me and let go for a moment. I won’t leave,” he says, making it a promise. He pairs it with an awkwardly-angled kiss to the hair above Albus’s temple. 

Albus digs his fingers into the back of Draco’s shirt for a beat. Then, with visible difficulty, he lifts his head up and loosens his hold, sliding his hands to rest over Draco’s biceps. He doesn’t hold on, but Draco can’t hide a smirk; it’s exactly where he would position his own hands if worried someone might try to get away. Albus stares up at Draco with glassy, lust-blown eyes, and Draco removes his hand to nudge his chin up a little higher and drops a kiss onto his mouth, his free hand flat on his chest to keep him in place — wisely, it seems, because Albus’s response to that is another attempt to devour him. Draco chuckles and pushes him back to create some distance between them.

“No,” he says, cupping Albus’s jaw. “Not yet.”

* * *

Dazed, Albus tries to focus on the deep, calm timbre of Mr Malfoy’s voice. The room spins around him, and he can’t quite let himself believe that Mr Malfoy isn’t going to just disappear, taking all of that delicious, addictive heat with him, if Albus lets go. He’s so hard, there’s a dark patch of damp on the outside of Mr Malfoy’s trousers from the dribble of precome that was sliding down Albus’s dick. If Mr Malfoy leaves—

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and Albus realises he’s spoken aloud. “Not now. Do you understand?”

Haltingly, Albus nods. He forces his hands to his sides, and Mr Malfoy gives him an approving smile, thumb coasting over Albus’s cheekbone once before his touch drops away. Albus takes a deep breath, swallowing the moan that wants to break free; his nose is still filled with that scent; he can still taste it on his tongue. 

“Look at you,” Mr Malfoy — _Draco!_ Albus thinks uselessly. _He touched you when you called him that!_ — murmurs. The slide of those grey eyes down Albus’s body feels good, like a slow lick in places he’s only imagined, but it’s… embarrassing, too. A reminder that Albus is naked, when he’s never been naked in front of anyone but his family before — not even Scorpius, who changes in the dorm like most of the boys do, as if it’s no big deal. Hell, James took longer than Albus did to outgrow his running-around-the-house-naked phase when they were little; Albus has seen pictures that prove as much. It somehow never occurred to Albus in such a… a _real_ way that, to do the things he’s been longing for, someone would be able to _see_ him. His dick juts out and his body is too hot. He fights the urge to pick up the sheet again and keeps his hands dangling stupidly at his sides. Mr Malfoy nods as if he understands. “You’re exquisite, Albus.”

Albus chokes a laugh, the sound stuttering into nothing when a frown creases Mr Malfoy’s forehead. He runs a warm hand — the same one that he used to rub Albus so intimately before — along Albus’s shoulder, down the subtle curves of Albus’s upper arm, almost like someone would touch an animal they were thinking of buying. Why that makes everything ten times hotter, Albus doesn’t know, but he lowers onto his heels, and stays motionless for Mr Malfoy’s slow perusal, because Mr Malfoy _is still there._

“You don’t think so?” Mr Malfoy asks. 

“I’m— skinny,” Albus says. “And I look too much like my—”

“Ah, no.” Mr Malfoy clicks his tongue and shakes his head, running his fingers through Albus’s hair; Albus leans in to the sensation. “A surface resemblance, perhaps. And if I recall correctly, his build was similar to yours, a bit thinner, really, when we were your age. But, Albus. There is something captivating about you that belongs to you alone,” he says with such certainty Albus can’t speak or swallow, can barely breathe for fear it’ll interrupt the flow of words — if he’s lying, Albus can’t tell. Mr Malfoy smiles. “And you want to give that to me, don’t you?”

Albus’s cock rises, smacks into his own stomach. Mortified, he closes his eyes, but nods anyway. “Yes.”

“Mm. And what is it you want in return?” Mr Malfoy asks. With his eyes closed, the feather-light strokes of Mr Malfoy’s hand over Albus’s skin — shoulders, neck, nipples, ribs — and that lingering, snapping hot scent make Albus twitch with pleasure, leave him shivering, tensing in anticipation time and again. The tip of a finger pets the damp, skinny line of hair on Albus’s stomach. Albus inhales sharply, and Mr Malfoy says, “You like the way I smell?”

Albus whines like his aunt and uncle’s dog used to before they got her fixed — _Ah, do not worry, she ees just a beech in heat,_ Aunt Fleur explained with an affectionate scratch to the dog’s jaw when Albus asked if she was hurt — but he can’t help it. Then a warm, long-fingered hand wraps around his erection, and Albus bucks into the sensation, eyes popping open in shock, to see Mr Malfoy’s fist move up and down his shaft, _touching_ him, oh fuck, he’s touching Albus’s dick. Just the sight almost makes Albus come, but then Mr Malfoy strokes his hand up to the base and squeezes, holding steady, and the urge eases off a bit. Albus lets go of a shaky breath and dares a glance up, to find Mr Malfoy evaluating him. 

“Y-yes,” Albus says. “It’s…”

“Go on.” Mr Malfoy leans in, breath puffing sweet against Albus’s lips, eyes nothing but narrow strips of silver. He edges back when Albus tries to steal another kiss. “What is it?”

“I— I— I don’t _know_ ,” Albus says helplessly, unable to collect his thoughts amidst the riot of pleasure and nerves streaking through him. “It’s _good_ , it’s so good I can _taste_ it, it makes me so hard, I— It’s what I smelled when we made Cupidatemtentia, I think about it when I—” He gulps and reaches for Mr Malfoy, panicked when Mr Malfoy’s hand releases him, when he starts to step back, eyes wide; it was too much to admit, and now Mr Malfoy will want to leave. “I never have in your room, I promise,” Albus gets out. “Before. Never, Mr— Draco— Sir...”

“Shh.” Mr Malfoy covers Albus’s mouth with his palm, and Albus almost sobs with relief. His gaze is narrowed, but he doesn’t look angry, just thoughtful. And then, slowly, a light flares in his eyes; a wide smile dawns. He uncovers Albus’s mouth, frames Albus’s face in his hands, and this time doesn’t extend the torment; he lifts Albus’s face, and kisses him. 

The sob breaks free from Albus’s throat, but he can’t care, not when Mr Malfoy seems so willing to swallow the sound. He slants Albus’s head to the right, pressing his tongue hot and slick into Albus’s mouth with slow, deep licks that suck the air from Albus’s lungs. He tastes _exactly_ like he smells right now, bitter and decadent as dark chocolate, a prize Albus didn’t win but for some reason has been given. His body is long and hard and lean, and he doesn’t object when Albus slides his arms around his shoulders again, when Albus sinks his fingers into his hair. He simply hums with what seems like approval; the sound sets Albus’s lips to tingling, and reassures him enough that he cautiously attempts to reciprocate the flicks of Mr Malfoy’s tongue against his. Mr Malfoy makes another noise, a deep, wordless, _Mmhmm, yes_ , and skims his teeth over Albus’s bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth. Body tensing, Albus wrenches his head back with a yelp.

“I’m! Going to—” 

“I can help you make it last,” Mr Malfoy says in a voice like silk, hands running down Albus’s back. “If you like.” He squeezes Albus’s arse cheeks in a pointed, possessive way, and Albus exhales, nods, and tightens his arms. Mr Malfoy smiles as if pleased, then murmurs, “ _Tuum voluptatem obsequitur_ ,” a scalding sweep of magic outpouring from his palms into Albus’s skin, and Albus sags, mouth open and so tight against Mr Malfoy’s jaw it squishes Albus’s nose. Mr Malfoy suddenly smells like a match that’s been lit just to be blown out, the entire room does, sweet and smoky and hot, and the urge to come hasn’t faded at all. If anything, it’s got worse.

“I don’t think it worked,” Albus says, trying not to move against him. He can feel Mr Malfoy’s dick through his trousers, pushing stiffly at his hip. Albus digs his fingers into Mr Malfoy’s shirt to keep from touching it without permission. “Oh god. Oh, _god._ ” 

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Mr Malfoy says into his ear. He nips at the lobe, his hand releasing Albus’s arse to move between them, the back of his wrist brushing over Albus’s erection. There’s the quick sound of a zip, then the light rustle of fabric, and then— _Fuck,_ Mr Malfoy is stroking the slippery tip of his dick — cock; he’d called it a cock, before — along the length of Albus’s. Mr Malfoy’s chest expands against his, holds with an expectant pause. “Do you want to see?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Albus breathes. He tries to pull back so he can look down and can’t, belatedly reminded of his clutch ‘round Mr Malfoy’s shoulders when Mr Malfoy chuckles and shifts his shoulder blades like wings under Albus’s hands. Albus prises his fingers from his shirt and edges back. Despite everything that’s already happened, he has to brace himself to look down. “Shit.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Mr Malfoy sounds amused, but Albus can’t bring himself to check, can’t look at anything but Mr Malfoy’s— Mr Malfoy’s _cock_ , pulled right out of his still-buttoned flies and swollen thick and long and leaking, blushing pink in his grip as he smears his precome over Albus’s shaft. Neat tufts of curling blond hair surround it, and the contrasts between them — the curve of Albus’s thinner dick against the heavier, straight jut of Mr Malfoy’s, Albus’s dark pubic hair and deeper flush of skin, almost red near the tip, against the paler strike of Mr Malfoy’s colouring, Albus’s foreskin smoothed back, Mr Malfoy’s still tight around the head — are hypnotic. Mesmerising. Albus’s eyes start to burn; each damp stroke of Mr Malfoy’s cock against his throbs in Albus’s balls, which are drawn up tight. He wants to come. 

“Breathe, Albus,” Mr Malfoy says, and Albus realises he hasn’t been; he sucks in a dizzying lungful of air, the world reorienting itself around him. He can feel Mr Malfoy smile against his temple. “Look at us,” he murmurs. He unwraps his fingers from his cock, just enough to curl them around Albus’s too, constricting their cocks fist, and jerks up with a twist, towards the heads. 

Albus cries out, a crest of pleasure rising in him but somehow out of reach. “I want— I want—”

“Do you want a taste?” Mr Malfoy asks. It’s not what Albus had been about to say, but he finds himself nodding. “Would you like to taste me there?”

Albus shudders, the offer flooding his mouth with saliva and robbing him of all speech. He nods again. Yes. _Yes._ That’s what he wants.

* * *

Draco kisses Albus once more, taking his time with it. He doesn’t need to ask whether Albus has been kissed before, whether he’s been touched; the surprise and earnestness of his responses answer those questions well enough. And much to his own surprise, Draco is, for the first time, unbothered by it: Albus’s artlessly sweet reactions, his swiftly-building skill. When Draco plunges his tongue into Albus’s mouth, Albus parts his lips further; when he strokes over their cocks with a lighter touch, Albus simply nods and whimpers into the kiss. He’s either making mental notes about what Draco enjoys or it’s entirely instinctive on his part — Draco’s fairly sure it’s the latter, knowing what he does now.

Albus is a magical empath. Draco can scarcely believe his own luck.

Though Scorpius has regaled him time and again of Albus’s magical instinct, it’s an entirely different matter to realise its depths for himself, and under such circumstances, too. And it seems that Albus has no idea, which somehow makes it all the more delightful: Harry Potter’s son is so intuitive, he can sense Draco’s magic. Can scent it. Further, Albus is drawn to it, _aroused_ by it, all of his synapses snapping with hunger and fulfillment at being in its presence. The irony is deeply, gratifyingly twisted.

It’s not that magic sensitivity is, by itself, a wholly unusual thing. Draco has read cases in which it’s been described as everything from a skittering unease over one’s skin to bright or shadowed aura. But Draco’s magic is different from that of other witches and wizards, and has been for twenty-seven years — since the night Voldemort held Draco’s wrist in a cold hand and branded a mark into Draco’s forearm. Into his blood. Into every atom that makes up Draco’s magical core. The Mark is nothing but a defunct, lifeless thing now, but each and every spell Draco has cast since has echoed with strains of the darkness from which it came. 

Draco is accustomed to being wanted for a myriad of reasons: his looks or magical prowess, his wealth, his charm. Even his history; even the Mark. This, however… This is new. Albus is not a simple fetishist with a distasteful kink; a magical empath’s attraction to or disdain for someone determines their interpretation of the magic they sense. But it’s a causal loop: If Albus had no predisposition towards the Dark Arts, he’d feel vaguely repelled by Draco’s presence, no matter how much he might want him.

It makes Draco wonder. About a lot of things, really.

But right now, there are more pressing matters. 

With no small amount of regret, Draco breaks the kiss. He gives their cocks one last squeeze, then releases them and steps back, accomplishing both in one fluid motion that has a needy sound falling from Albus’s lips, has his lightly muscled arms reaching out for Draco again. His colour is high, his eyes glazed and greedy. 

“You— You said I could...” Albus licks his lips. “...taste.” 

“And I keep my promises,” Draco says, stripping off his shirt and socks. Albus’s mouth forms a perfect little ‘o’, still wet and pink from Draco’s kiss. His eyes, wide and brilliantly green and fringed with those dark lashes, watch Draco rapturously as he unbuttons his trousers and gives his cock a pull before tucking it back into his boxers so he can divest himself of them. Merlin, he’s so young. So sweet. The longing on his face makes Draco question his own caution about bedding the boys he sees frequenting the clubs these days, the ones right out of Hogwarts. 

His wand is still on the mantelpiece, so Draco summons his energy and splays his fingers, sending his clothing to his wardrobe rather than leaving it on the floor. He’s not always fastidious about such things where sex is concerned, but he’s curious if Albus’s reaction will be as good as last time, and it doesn’t disappoint: Albus’s eyelashes flutter; the tip of his tongue trembles against his upper lip. Draco gestures to the bed and multiplies the pillows with a focused thought, and Albus moans and balls up his hands; that lovely, curved cock of his slaps softly against his stomach again, drooling out another thick bead of precome. 

Flicking his fingers, Draco clears his bed of the rumpled, untucked top sheet, of the heavy duvet that Albus had kicked down near the foot. 

“ _Please_ ,” Albus says tightly. 

“What is it like?” Draco asks, easing onto the bed. Albus crawls backwards to make way, and Draco meets him in the middle of the wide mattress, both of them risen high on their knees. He runs his palms down Albus’s flank; he may think of himself as skinny, but he’s already begun to take on the feel of a man, his body tight with whipcord muscle. His chest is hairless; his nipples are small, coppery and pebbled. Draco catches one between his index and middle fingers and tweaks it, gleeful when Albus’s head falls back.“What do I smell like?”

“G-good,” Albus says. Draco kisses the join of his neck and shoulder, and Albus scoots closer, presses against him; his cock is so stiff against Draco’s, Draco might worry Albus is going to come too soon. As it is, his spell has taken care of that, and Albus can’t — not until Draco gives the word releasing his orgasm. Normally, it’d intensify the sensation. Considering Albus’s latent talents, Draco can’t begin to assume how it might feel. 

“Go on,” Draco murmurs. “Tell me.” He kisses Albus’s jaw, his throat. Albus smells good too, like sex and sweat and come, but Draco rather thinks Albus means something different. He follows the tendons up the side of Albus’s neck with his teeth and tongue, closing his fingers in a pinch around Albus’s nipple at regular intervals, and the rhythm of Albus’s rutting hips starts smoothing into a slow grind, their cocks rubbing together. He’s a fast learner. “Tell me, and you can taste me.”

Albus makes a quiet, needy sound, digging his fingers into Draco’s arms. He lifts his head and says, hoarsely, “‘s always different. Makes me— see, feel… Hot, it’s so hot.” He inhales, licking his lips; his pupils are huge, inky. “It’s, _ah_ , burnt, and cold as cracked g-glass, and…” He shakes his head, then flattens his hand against Draco’s chest and applies pressure. After a beat, Draco yields to it and sits on his heels. Albus bites his lip and checks Draco’s face; at Draco’s nod, he slides away so there’s space between them, then sinks back onto his heels as well. He bends, folding directly over his knees, his dark, shaggy mane of hair rubbing like silk down Draco’s chest and stomach until his mouth is hovering over Draco’s prick. There, he pauses and plants his hands on either side of Draco; the slender line of his back hitches with each panting gulp he takes, warm, tantalising breaths stirring Draco’s pubic hair. Draco takes his cock in hand and angles it in the direction of Albus’s mouth.

He expects… Well, something inexperienced but enjoyable. An accidental hint of teeth, an erratic rhythm. Not the soft, shy kisses Albus presses along his shaft. Not the long inhale, Albus’s nose brushing his groin, nor the appreciative groan that follows, masculine and low as he mouths his way toward Draco’s leaking cockhead. When he reaches it, he accepts just the tip of Draco’s prick between the slick of his lips, flicking his tongue over the slit. It’s a slow, sipping sensation. Careful. Draco pushes his free hand into Albus’s hair. He combs through it with his fingers and sighs.

“ _Good,_ ” he breathes, petting down over Albus’s nape, “that’s just right, Albus. Take more of it, now.” 

Albus obeys, exhaling warm through his nose, his mouth slowly opening wider and sliding down wetly over the length of Draco’s cock. He shimmies a little, one hand coming up to touch the top of Draco’s thigh. A request for permission. It’s so perfectly done, Draco doesn’t see any reason not to give it; he loosens his hold on his cock and grips the outside of Albus’s shoulders, bowing over Albus’s folded body.

“Yes,” he says, as Albus takes more of him in. “Yes, you can.”

* * *

Albus shivers, more turned on than he’s been in his life. And afraid, too; he has no idea what he’s doing, his lips stretched wide around Mr Malfoy’s erection. The clean-bitter-hot flavour of Mr Malfoy, the rich, exotic scent of him right there in his nose, soothes him, flusters him, each time Albus slides his lips further down. He wants everything to feel as good to Mr Malfoy as it does to him, his own cock held fast between his stomach and the press of his thighs, and thinks it might, maybe, when there’s a long, pulsing throb against his tongue and Mr Malfoy lets out a slow, even breath. Albus hesitantly slips his hand up to replace Mr Malfoy’s, circling the base.

“That’s, _mmm_ , yes,” Mr Malfoy says above him, his touch roaming over Albus’s back. His fingertips brush over the top of Albus’s arse, between his cheeks. Albus cants his hips upward as best he can, wanting more, wanting Mr Malfoy to touch him like he did before, but Mr Malfoy just straightens after a few, light strokes, then takes Albus’s wrist. He pulls Albus’s hand off his cock and wordlessly guides it lower, to cup his balls “That’s it,” he murmurs, then pulls away to stroke Albus’s hair and hold the back of Albus’s neck again in a way that traps him in place, the heavy weight of Mr Malfoy’s cock on his tongue, filling his mouth. “Relax your throat. Can you?”

Confused, Albus pauses, and then it comes to him all at once. He groans and tries to nod, another spurt of precome stickying up his stomach at the thought. He squirms, the friction around his hard-on just on the edge of real satisfaction. Mr Malfoy hisses softly, and Albus realises he’s holding Mr Malfoy’s balls too tight; he loosens his grip, rolls them in his palm. His angle is bad for looking up to check, but it seems to be the right thing because Mr Malfoy resumes his pet over Albus’s hair and rises a little, spreading his knees wider apart. And then he presses his hips forward.

He does it slowly, deliberately; the round head of his cock rests for just a moment on the back of Albus’s tongue. Albus takes a breath in through his nose, long and dizzy, and Mr Malfoy makes a rough, stifled sound and pushes deeper on a long slide, his cock nudging into Albus’s throat and out again. In. Out. A steady, gentle thrusting that makes Albus’s eyes sting and stimulates his gag reflex, saliva filling his mouth, dripping from the corners down to his chin. It makes a sloppy, wet sound that’s only broken by Mr Malfoy’s husky praise above him, _Yes, Albus, if you could see how you look right now, perfect, letting me fuck your throat, what a beautiful thing you are, that’s so good, so good, yes…_ Albus can almost see it, what Mr Malfoy is seeing: the trembling of his head as he fights to hold still, the restless movements of his body, the way his bent position pulls his arse cheeks apart. It’s filthy, maybe shameful, and so, _so_ much better than he could have ever imagined. 

Mr Malfoy releases the hold on his neck and pushes at his head. Albus pulls away with a hard gasp, eyes streaming, as Mr Malfoy’s cock slides from his mouth. A cool wash of magic eases his burning lungs and the ache in his throat, and he draws a long breath, lightheaded at being able to smell that scent so clearly again. It’s strong, dark and reassuring, and he can’t stop himself from nuzzling Mr Malfoy, feverishly seeking more. He suckles over the head of Mr Malfoy’s cock, swipes his tongue over precome and his own spit from the delicate folds of Mr Malfoy’s foreskin, inhaling through his nose, a soft, faraway whine filling the air that he thinks might be coming from him. Holding his neck at the same angle for so long has made it ache, but he bends lower anyway to lap at Mr Malfoy’s balls. He licks them, sucks them, running his nose over the soft skin above and the warm crease of Mr Malfoy’s groin, then lifts them in his hand to mouth below them, shaking with the need to come. Mr Malfoy’s hand touches his shoulder, lightly at first and then harder, urging him to rise, but he can’t, he _can’t_ , that smell is _everywhere_ , like asphodel and wormwood, like rose thorns and moonstone, like thyme and Occamy shells. It smells like all of the restricted potions Albus is not supposed to practice on his own, the ones he can make without even looking at the book, like every secret he shouldn’t know and every one he wants to know more about. 

A flare of discomfort in his scalp breaks his focus. Albus exhales with a whoosh of air, and before he can breathe in again, he’s being hauled up, Mr Malfoy’s fingers clenched tight in his hair. His chest is heaving just as hard as Albus’s; he stares at Albus expressionlessly, gaze intense and glittering. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temples. 

Albus swallows, panting. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I—”

Mr Malfoy’s growl cuts him off, and Albus flinches back. Searches for the right words with a vague hope of explaining. But then Mr Malfoy is dragging him closer and hooking a hard, unyielding arm around his waist, and covering Albus’s mouth with his own. The kiss is rough, slick, and nothing like the ones that came before. Albus whimpers and gives himself up to it — to the way Mr Malfoy forces his mouth open with his tongue; to the scrape of his teeth against Albus’s lips as the kiss goes on and on. Mr Malfoy rotates his hips, one firm hand on Albus’s arse, grinding their cocks together in a damp slide that has Albus shuddering, his fingers clutching at the smooth, flexing muscles of Mr Malfoy’s back. And then the sensation of spinning; Mr Malfoy twists them and presses Albus down into the mattress. He knocks Albus’s thighs wide with one of his knees and pins Albus’s hips with his stomach. When he lifts his head, his face is set, his jaw bunching. 

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you?” he asks through his teeth. “Do you have any idea?”

Albus can only look at him for a moment. His lips feel swollen; he licks them and nods. He doesn’t know, not really. Can’t. Understanding basic mechanics isn’t really an advantage — Albus doesn’t even think having done it before would be. He closes his eyes and lifts his hips against the weight holding him down. Wriggles them and hears Mr Malfoy’s sharply-drawn breath when the curve of his arse pushes against the hard length of Mr Malfoy’s cock. He opens his eyes.

“Fuck me,” Albus whispers. “You’re going to fuck me.”

The savage scowl on Mr Malfoy’s face flickers with a complicated mix of things, too fast for Albus to begin to understand what they are, and he gives a clipped nod. But his voice is level again when he says, “Put your ankle on my shoulder.”

He slides his hand down the inside of Albus’s thigh, taking hold of his knee as Albus lifts it and silently adjusting his positioning until Albus’s ankle is fit against the side of his neck. He looks down between them with a small, irritated frown, then pushes Albus’s opposite knee further out and down, pressing it to the bed. It’s uncomfortable, and Albus’s hip aches, but even as he processes that, Mr Malfoy is reaching between them to grip Albus’s erection. He glides Albus’s foreskin back, bunching it toward the base and smoothing it down with a slow, tight stroke. Another. _Another,_ going until Albus can’t help but writhe and use what leverage he’s got with his foot to fuck into the circle of Mr Malfoy’s fist; and then, with a smile bordering on cruel, Mr Malfoy takes his hand away. 

“I am going,” he says, leaning down to graze Albus’s throat with his teeth, “to make you feel better than you’ve ever felt before.” He pets Albus’s stomach, slides his hand to briefly fondle Albus’s balls, so sensitive now that Albus has to bite down on his own his knuckles to muffle the moan that spills out. Mr Malfoy smirks and releases them, fingers drifting lower. He pries Albus’s tensed arse cheeks apart and rubs over his hole, then leans down again, to murmur right against his mouth, “I am going to fuck you until you smell just like me.”  
.  
“Oh my _god._ ” Albus trembles, the wickedly good scent of Mr Malfoy’s breath warming his lips as those fingers against his arsehole are suddenly slickened, one of them nudging inward, filling him up and slaking an emptiness he hadn’t known he felt. He clenches around it to keep that sense of fullness, distantly aware of a burn when Mr Malfoy eventually adds another finger. Mr Malfoy fucks them into him and, on the outstroke, skims over a spot like a live wire. “ _Unnhh, fuck,_ oh my fucking _god._ ”

“More?” Mr Malfoy says lifting his head and flashing his teeth in a smile that gives his face an unholy cast. He twists his fingers, slides across the spot again, and a choked, frustrated cry tears out of Albus’s throat; he feels like he’s dangling from a crumbling bluff, but can’t let go to meet the waves reaching up to claim him. 

“ _More,_ ” he begs. 

“Good boy,” Mr Malfoy purrs.

* * *

Dear lord.

Draco drives his fingers in and out of Albus at an excruciatingly slow pace, holding onto his smile by the barest of threads. He has the sense that if he lets it fall away, so too will the last shreds of his control go, like they nearly had during Albus’s fervent, hungry exploration of his body, those lips sucking sweet at the head of Draco’s prick and coaxing Draco’s body into rising chills as Albus licked over his bollocks. He’d been a world away and yet _right there_ , as though Albus was merely a vehicle for his own id, and Draco the road by which it was travelling in search for pleasure — and all because a simple spell to free up the boy’s lungs had a more potent effect than Draco anticipated. It was heady, provocative, and it had taken every ounce of restraint Draco had not to throw him down and mount him immediately.

This is the way one descends into madness.

Fucking hell. Draco adds another finger.

Unlike with the first two, Albus genuinely tenses this time, the pleasure on his face flickering with an unfocussed frown, his arse contracting when Draco’s barely got them in to the first knuckle. Draco slows down and murmurs a spell to add more lube. Conjured isn’t his own preference, but the magic has Albus gasping again, and his sphincter softens, stretches, almost as easily as if Draco were using a prep spell on him, and Draco works his fingers into him with steady, increasing pressure, Albus’s inner muscles clinging to them each time he teases the small knot of his prostate. Somehow he doubts it will be as simple when he goes to fit his cock in there, but he can’t wait any longer. 

With a final brush and twist of his fingers, he removes them and pauses, considering, before settling between Albus’s narrow hips, Albus’s leg sliding on his shoulder until his calf is dangling over Draco’s back. He has a fondness for the line of a man from behind, likes being able to hold someone’s buttocks open and watch as his prick sinks inside. But he suspects that proximity to his magic’s scent — or lack thereof — might make all the difference, so, as he lines up with his right hand, he props his left forearm next to Albus’s cheek and curls his wrist around the top of his head. He strokes his cockhead over Albus’s rim, feels it twitch at the contact, and pushes in.

Fuck. Yes. This moment is always good, that supple sheathing around the head of his cock. But as expected, Draco’s hardly managed to breach him before Albus goes rigid, his body clamping down and allowing Draco no further. His heavy-lidded gaze widens, and the sudden vulnerability reflects his age, his remarkable innocence. Draco hesitates, gritting his teeth with the effort it takes not to simply plough into the boy, and the knowledge that he could make it good for him afterward doesn’t help, nor does the fact that when Draco looks, Albus’s erection hasn’t wilted; it’s still hard and leaking, curved towards his hip. But Albus’s limbs are vibrating with tension, and he makes a subtle, wounded noise when Draco tests his inaccess with another tiny push of his hips. 

“It’s okay,” Albus says in a small, thin voice. Draco glances up, sees Albus staring at him. His brows are drawn in with a tight, pained grimace, but it’s paired with a look of utter faith, the sort Draco can barely recall having seen. Not directed at him. Albus’s chest is flushed, his lips kiss-bitten and dark, his body quivering, and his gaze is unswerving on Draco’s, the trust open and explicit on his face — as though he really doesn’t know what Draco is capable of. After a quick bite to his lip, he says, “I want you to.”

The world bends, an unfamiliar tightness taking hold of Draco’s chest. He rounds his shoulders and kisses Albus, then touches his jaw to guide the turn of his cheek onto the pillow, so his nose is resting against the inside of Draco’s forearm. “Just breathe,” he says, the words a low rasp. 

His focus is too scattered for wordless, so he murmurs the spell, slathering his cock with the same lube he used to work Albus open. Albus’s breath speeds up; his mouth opens against the faded coils of Draco’s Mark with a silent gasp, and Draco repeats the spell, adding more until the satiny drizzle of oil drips from his cock to Albus’s buttocks, likely soaking a spot into his mattress — until abandon has replaced the fearful determination on Albus’s face and his hips begin an instinctive fuck upwards, his own cock rising up between them. And then Draco drives in on an easy, unhurried slide, the slippery channel of Albus’s arse perfectly, entirely encasing the length of Draco’s cock. He holds himself there, poised with his pelvis pressed flush against Albus’s buttocks, his breath coming heavy and hard, and waits. 

Albus turns his face up again. His eyes are clear but dark, pupil eclipsing the iris. He wriggles his hips, knits his brow and clenches around Draco, and breathes, “Uhh, _yes._ ” 

It’s enough. Draco rears back, dragging his cock out to the tip, and slams back in, so hard it jars Albus nearer to the extra pillows Draco’d spelled to cover the headboard. He does it again, and again, and Albus merely whines, gasping, his calf tensing on Draco’s shoulder, his opposite leg coming up to slide around Draco’s waist. Draco snaps his hips with long, driving strokes that Albus tries to match, clumsily at times until he picks up on the pace Draco’s set, his face a twist of euphoric concentration.

“Dr— _Ah!_ So good, oh god, it’s so— P-please, don’t st— st-stop, _fuck_.” Albus moans, a soft, meandering whine punctuating the babble. His hands are hard on Draco’s ribcage; his cock thwacks Draco’s stomach each time Draco pumps deep. “Feels so— _please!_ ”

“What do you want?” Draco asks, breathless. He wants to hear it, though he already knows — oh, god, does he. Albus is still tight around him, tender inner muscles spasming in response to Draco’s thrusts, and the excessive amounts of lube he’s used make the way delectably wet and intensifies the sound of his bollocks smacking against Albus’s arse. He hikes Albus’s leg higher and shudders when Albus does, his own climax rising swiftly. “What do you _need,_ Albus?”

“To come,” Albus cries out. His hips are flying up, his cock dribbling copiously. “Please, let me, oh fuck, don’t stop fucking me, it’s so fucking good, let me, make me smell like you, let me come, let me, Mr Malf— Fuck!” he wails, arse convulsing as though he’s already in the throes of his climax, and Draco wants to see it, to feel it — _Harry Potter’s Slytherin son ruined with pleasure for **him**_ — and he mutters the counterspell without thinking. 

Albus keens, nostrils flaring wide and eyes snapping shut, shoulders pressing into the pillows as he works his hips in time with the frenzied drive of Draco’s cock, his own jerking in the air between them to stripe Draco’s chest with gleaming ropes of come. Racked with shudders, he clamps down around Draco, and Draco’s control breaks. Growling, he pulls out and flips Albus over; he spreads Albus’s buttocks and shoves back in with a grunt even as Albus flails for balance, his high, confused sound of protest petering into a choked, unsteady, _yes, yes, please!_

Draco hauls his hips up and back, bouncing Albus’s arse off his pelvis, and watches himself fuck deep with relish, undone by the sight of Albus’s slick rim stretching smooth around the aching girth of his cock. He reaches around Albus’s slender hip and grips his pulsing cock in a sure fist, and Albus groans, head dropping forward, shoulder blades nearly meeting in the middle of his slender back, and pushes back. He surrenders to the hard grind of Draco’s pelvic bone and the stroke of his hand, elbows sliding bonelessly sideways, and finally, _finally_ , Draco’s own orgasm rips through him. Shaking, he bows over Albus and mouths at the jut of those shoulder blades, cock throbbing with hot spurts into the rhythmic, heated clasp of Albus’s arse, his vision blurring with the force of it. 

 

In the aftermath, everything is quiet. The harsh wheeze of their breaths slow; the ticking of Draco’s antique clock filters in. Albus lies slack and unmoving beneath him; his eyes are shut, and his cheek is pressed deep into the pillow, a smile tugging at his mouth. Draco pulls his softening cock out and shifts off him, rolling lethargically to his back. Adrift, he stares at his gauzy bed hangings, then twists his head to find Albus watching him, the rapt, sleepy contentment on his face replaced by an uncertain smile. 

“You’re not angry?” he asks. 

Surprised into a snort, Draco tucks his arm under his head and returns his gaze to the bed hangings. There’s a galling catch in the gathered fabric pinned to the bedposts and he wonders if he’ll need to put up new wards against Scorpius’s troublesome kitten; apparently keeping his doors closed doesn’t work.

“That you trespassed in my room and availed yourself of my bed in my absence?” Draco drawls at length, relieved when his voice comes out steady. “No. And I’d be appalled to discover this is your idea of discipline.” 

Albus laughs shyly. The glowing flush is fading on his face but his eyes are bright, his hair chaotic around him. He does nothing at all to hide his nudity or the clean off the stains of his first good fucking. The whole effect is so damned charming, it reminds Draco why he doesn’t bring men home; it’s a lot less complicated to leave than to kick someone out. Draco looks away, unsettled. 

“No, ‘course not.” Albus’s laugh transitions into a hiccup, then into a yawn. After a beat, he timidly continues. “I mean, I— I get it. I missed signals, and you were… Um, into m— it” he says, making it sound like a question. Draco doesn’t respond, and Albus takes a breath. “And it seemed like it was, er, you know… good for you too?” His voice takes on an anxious note at Draco’s silence. “Only, I thought you seemed angry, a little… After I… When I was...”

Damn it all to hell. Draco turns again to meet Albus’s gaze.

“No, I wasn’t angry,” he says gently, because he hasn’t even begun to process the implications of why he was, yet. Why this boy managed, with the obsessive, tender cravings of youthful magic, to creep past the wards Draco settled around himself so long ago. How so few have ever done that. Draco sighs and rubs a hand over his face. He says, “And yes, I enjoyed you. Immensely,” in what’s perhaps the most massive understatement he’s ever made. An understatement, but not a lie. Neither his desire nor his curiosity has been remotely quenched. It feels like a problem, almost certainly is one, but what’s done is done now, and the only thing left to do is consider his way forward. He flashes Albus a smile, one it looks like the boy needs. “I assumed it was obvious, but I should have said so immediately. Please forgive me.”

Albus relaxes. He scoots a little closer and presses a tentative kiss to Draco’s shoulder, inhaling deeply with a soft, happy sound. He yawns again, eyes drifting shut, and tucks himself next to Draco’s body. Within minutes, he’s fast asleep. Sweet Merlin, how trusting. And he’s Scorpius’s best friend, too. Potter’s sprog. Draco’d likely curse a man his age into the grave for dallying with his son in such a manner, no matter the reasoning; if Potter were to come after him for this, Draco highly doubts the excuse of sheer lust will go over very well.

Draco Summons his wand. Keeping his magic light and unobtrusive, he clears the tacky-damp remains of sex from their bodies and dries the bed, then levitates the covers over them. Albus snuffles and burrows closer, and Draco lowers the lamps. Even if the Potters are worried enough about Albus’s absence to come to the Manor, they’ve not been keyed into the wards the way Albus has; Draco has no fear that they’ll be caught in such a compromising position. 

It gives him time. Until the morning, at least. Time to consider things, and make a decision.

* * *

Albus wakes up, the most heavenly scent in his nose, like sticky buns nicked from his grandmother’s counter, like whatever treasures his dad keeps in that vault he thinks Albus doesn’t remember him taking him to, deep in the catacombs of Gringotts. He sniffs, mumbles a moan when his stretch introduces delicious new aches throughout his body. His dick is already hard, wedged against a firm press of… thigh?

His eyes fly open, and he squeezes them into a squint, the light streaming in through the windows too bright. More shocking, though, is Mr Malfoy, lying beside Albus with bed-tousled hair and looking at him with an indecipherable expression, and the memories that come flooding back which give cause to the unfamiliar discomfort in his body.

Oh, god. _None of it was a dream._

Mr Malfoy shifts his leg and Albus can’t resist moaning again and rutting against it, can’t resist seeking the heat emanating from Mr Malfoy’s throat with his nose. But Mr Malfoy pulls away, one hand on Albus’s chest. Eyes narrowed, he twists to rifle through his bedside drawer. Back to Albus, he says, “When are your parents expecting you back?”

A shot of guilt makes Albus wince. “I told them Scor wanted me to stay at least one night, so—”

“Lie back,” Mr Malfoy says, a hard, frustrated order that Albus scrambles to follow. He presses into the scattered pillows nervously, and Mr Malfoy turns back, a tube in his hand. He thumbs open the cap and squirts a good amount of gel into his palm — lube, oh god, it’s lube, and if last night wasn’t a dream, it’s possible _this isn’t either_ — and straddles Albus’s thighs, his knees holding them tight together. He strokes over his swollen cock until it’s glistening, then lines up and pushes it between the press of Albus’s thighs and starts thrusting. 

Albus can barely breathe; Mr Malfoy hasn’t even touched him, and he thinks he could die from how turned on he is, how close he is to coming. 

“We could— If you wanted,” Albus manages, “like last night, we could—” _Albus_ wants it, even though he doesn’t know how to say as much; even though he’s sore. Mr Malfoy hadn’t been lying when he’d said he’d make Albus feel better than ever before. 

Mr Malfoy grunts, pausing when Albus shifts and tries to open his legs. With a frown, Mr Malfoy grabs Albus’s hand briefly, swiping some of the lube into his palm, then guides Albus’s hand to his own hard-on before propping himself up, hands on either side of Albus. He resumes sliding his cock against the underside of Albus’s balls and along the crack of his arse, and it’s so fucking good Albus doesn’t even need to wrap his hand around himself. But he does, staring up into the sharp angles of Mr Malfoy’s face, and that feels good too. Mr Malfoy nods and rolls his hips harder. Albus strokes up and down his erection, curling his palm around the head the way he does every morning, not bothering to keep pace; he’s already so close, it won’t take much. 

He looks at Mr Malfoy’s mouth and bites down a whimper when Mr Malfoy slants him a dark smile and leans in to kiss him, Albus eagerly parting his lips for the hot slide of Mr Malfoy’s tongue with that bonus of maddening scent and taste. Albus comes before Mr Malfoy even lifts his head, his strangled cry stifled by their kiss as he pulls on his cock, pleasure unspooling inside him. Mr Malfoy draws away, eyes gleaming, and fucks against Albus harder, every stroke against Albus’s tingling balls wrenching a new pulse of satisfaction from him. Then Mr Malfoy stiffens, his upper lip pulling back, and Albus feels a warm splash of wet between his legs. Against his arse. Mr Malfoy groans, hips jerking for long seconds, and finally slumps over Albus, breathing heavily. 

Stunned, Albus touches his back. Runs his hand down it and back up. Mr Malfoy pulls off him with a small mutter and rolls to his bedside stand, coming back with Albus’s wand. He presses it into Albus’s hand and gathers the blankets up around them, so he’s covered to the waist. 

“Clean us up,” he says, looking at Albus intently. 

Bewildered, Albus casts a gentle _Tergeo_ , and then a freshening charm, for good measure. Mr Malfoy nods approvingly, still studying him. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Albus asks, uncomfortable with the silence. 

Mr Malfoy leans back against the headboard, lips pursing. He says, “You have a talent I think you’re unaware of.” 

Albus scoffs, turning it into a cough when Mr Malfoy raises an eyebrow. Other than in potions, his talents are mediocre at best. “Did Scorpius tell you that? He goes on about how good I am at stuff, but it’s mostly luck that I tend to get things right.” 

“My son,” Mr Malfoy says pointedly, in a way that makes Albus’s cheeks flood with heat, “may have mentioned your abilities. But I feel I’m due a little credit for making my own observations.”

Crap. “Sorry. Just— What talent?”

Mr Malfoy takes a long breath through his nose. Abruptly, he says, “What happened here could be… dangerous. We shouldn’t engage in this again. You’re aware of why, aren’t you?”

“But—!” Stricken, Albus tries several arguments in his head. They’re all overturned by the image of Scorpius’s face. By Albus’s dad’s fury. Except— “If it’s a secret,” he says weakly, and Mr Malfoy slants him a wry smile. He gestures to the pile of Albus’s clothes, now sitting folded in one of his arm chairs. Nods when Albus looks at him. Legs shaking, Albus slips out of the bed.

“I think you have the makings of a… particular sort of Unspeakable,” Mr Malfoy says, shifting the topic back once Albus has got his pants on. Albus’s eyes feel hot and swollen, and he turns away to pull on his shirt, rubbing the cotton against them before he pulls his head through. 

“I’m going to be a Potions Master,” Albus says, not caring that he sounds sulky. 

“I don’t see any reason you can’t do that as an Unspeakable,” Mr Malfoy says smoothly. He pauses. “Of course, it takes the highest marks. A seventh year dedicated to particular subjects. And three years of intensively supervised training.”

Albus looks at him, faltering at something in Mr Malfoy’s voice. A hint, a suggestion. Of what, Albus can’t tell; from the look on Mr Malfoy’s face, he could be reciting the new exchange rate of the Galleon and Dragot. Albus thinks, running Mr Malfoy’s last words in his mind as he pulls on his jeans. His breath catches. “And a sponsor. Right? You have to find an Unspeakable willing to sponsor you.”

Tilting his head, Mr Malfoy asks, “How are your marks?”

“Good,” Albus says breathlessly. “I— I’ve had some trouble in Defence, but I still get E’s.”

Mr Malfoy smirks. “Work on that.”

“I will.” Albus nods so hard he feels like his head might fall off, hope clawing at his chest. He takes a step towards the bed. “Does this mean—? Are you saying—?”

“We’re having a conversation,” Mr Malfoy says. “We’ve had many of those.”

“Okay, yeah.” Albus sits down, knees going weak. He slowly puts on his trainers. 

“Albus,” Mr Malfoy says seriously. “You’ll be too busy with your studies to accept any invitations to the Manor from Scorpius over the next year. Better to invite him to your house when you find the odd spot of time on break. Until you’re out of Hogwarts and — potentially — your parents’ home, it would be wise to commit yourself to getting into the programme, with a minimum of distraction.” 

“Then…” Heart in his throat, Albus stands. “Then I won’t…”

“I’ll be available by Owl should you be needing any advice,” Mr Malfoy cuts him off to say. He looks away for a moment and mutters something under his breath, then shakes his head and slides out of bed, lifting his dressing gown from the hook on the wall. He slips it on and ties the sash as he approaches. Albus closes his eyes to soak in the scent of him as he gets closer. Mr Malfoy touches him under the chin. He says, “But just for advice. Do you understand?”

“No,” Albus says, throat tight. The offer is right _there,_ , and Mr Malfoy wants him, and why it’ll be okay when Albus is out of school but not until makes no sense. “ _No._ I don’t.”

“You will,” Mr Malfoy murmurs, so kindly Albus want to scream. “Once you’ve had time to think things over.” 

Albus shakes his head, leaning into him. Mr Malfoy lets him, folding warm, strong arms around Albus as he huddles close to breathe him in, that smell like an itch he may never be able to scratch at again. 

“You should be getting back,” Mr Malfoy says. 

“Scorpius won’t be home for a week,” Albus says into his neck, blinking away the blur in his eyes. “I promised to visit Lyra.”

The hands on his back press deeper, the silence suddenly, oddly loud. Albus looks up.

“You did,” Mr Malfoy says slowly. He steps back, touch falling away. Face shuttered, he says, “And I can’t be sure I won’t get a last-minute Owl instructing me to return to Prague.”

Albus swallows. “Then I should keep... checking on her? For— For the next week?”

“I think… Yes. For the next week.” He takes another step away, holding his hands behind him, but a tiny smile tugs at his mouth. “You need to go now. It’s getting late. Perhaps I’ll run into you when you come back.”

“Tonight,” Albus says, nodding again. He starts to take a step towards him and halts. Puts his own hands behind his back. “I’ll be back tonight.”

“I see. Have a good day, Albus.”

* * *

Draco watches Albus battle his own instincts and smiles when Albus turns to walk, haltingly, to the Floo. He already resents his own refusal to pull Albus back into bed, but prudence dictates a higher degree of caution than he’s shown in the last twelve hours. Albus might have difficulty not letting something slip to Scorpius over the course of the school year if they continued. Hell, _Draco_ doesn’t particularly trust himself not to give something away, if Albus is constantly underfoot to tempt him.

After that, perhaps they can see. 

But he can’t deny that another week to indulge before the onset of true restraint will be much appreciated. 

Albus takes a pinch of Floo powder from the crystal jar resting on Draco’s mantelpiece. He hesitates, turns. “What talent do I have?”

“You… You’re able to sense certain types of magic,” Draco says, carefully choosing his words. “Mine. Perhaps others’. It affects your olfactory system.” Albus looks at him blankly. Amused and exasperated in equal measure, Draco explains, “It’s why you like the way I smell.”

“Certain kinds of magic? I don’t think—” Albus frowns, staring at him. His narrowed gaze falls to Draco’s left forearm, and Draco stills. Albus releases a slow breath. When he speaks, his voice is solemn, sure. More adult than his years. “No one’s ever made me feel the way you have. If I really can sense someone as good as you, I guess I’m glad for it.” His face creases in a smile, and he ducks into the Floo. 

Draco watches him vanish, his heart stuttering unevenly. There aren’t many things, after the life he’s lived, capable of rendering him completely speechless. Unfortunately, a surprisingly deft compliment is occasionally on the short list.

He unroots himself from his spot at the sound of a meow. Lyra peeps at him from beside his wardrobe, looking around curiously. She’s barely six months old; she must be missing Scorpius. Draco gently lifts her and sets her outside his doors before closing them. The elves will have made sure she’s fed and watered.

He glances at the time, then heads into the en suite. It’s still a bit early for a drink, and he needs to prepare for his day, regardless.

And, of course, for tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are lovely. 
> 
> Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com/) now, too! *waves*


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